


Congruence and Divergence

by allegoricalrose (SilentStars)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Canon Timeline, Crossing Timelines, Doomsday, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 02, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:12:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentStars/pseuds/allegoricalrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's gone, trapped in another universe, but he needs to touch her one last time. (Or so he tells himself)  <i>Behind the scenes and between the sheets of Series Two.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [See here](http://allegoricalrose.tumblr.com/post/130591486534/fic-content-warning-spoilers) for content and trigger warnings.

_"Will I ever see you again?"_

_"You can’t."_

She can’t, but he can. He does. He sees her dancing at a wedding, in a flash of gold ribbon, a teasing tongue on a billboard. She’s everywhere, a spirit flickering in the corner of his eye only to evaporate when he cranes his neck to look. The weightless image of her hair, fanning out in the wind as she disappears through a crack in the universes.

It’s been a month but he still tastes her residual energy and his bitter regret on his tongue when he walks down certain TARDIS corridors, startles at her warm scent when it drifts by his nose at the most unexpected of times. He chases them both, sniffing the air like a bloodhound, but they remain elusive, ethereal, ephemeral.

Some days he hears fabric rustling just behind him in his empty time ship, whips his head around only to behold barren space and time. The questions she would ask, her un-uttered exclamations of glee echo between his ears, rampaging through his thoughts like wild beasts.

He feels her in the space between: the abandoned bedroom with the bed un-tucked in anticipation of her return; his empty hand; the holes in his hearts she clawed for purchase as her fingers slipped from the lever. The gaping space in his mind where she used to stockpile her endless faith.

Her absent touch is the most raw of wounds to his tactile-centered senses and all at once, idly spinning a dial on his ship, he can’t take it anymore. Touch in the negative overwhelms his higher-order functions, pulsing in its pain, and he needs to feel her, touch her; his nerves need to sense her skin and perceive her stroking his thumb like she used to when they were out of danger and he needs to feel out of danger, needs to be consoled by the anatomy of her cells pressed to his cells and the signal that only touch can provide that he’s be alright and that she’ll be alright and—

It’s an impulse, not a decision, when he sets the TARDIS into flight, but it’s the strongest, most salient impulse that has ever thrummed along his synapses. 

She can’t. But he _can_.


	2. Chapter 2

She’s about to give up on sleep for the night and ask the TARDIS to turn on the light when the bed dips and a fully clothed-and-shoed Doctor slips under the sheets. He’s breathing heavily and quickly she squeezes her widened eyes shut and feigns sleep, curious what he’s doing in her bed but not wanting to scare him away. Is he sleep-walking? Is that a Time Lord thing?

But he’s clearly wide awake as he immediately folds up behind her and runs his hand up and down her bare arm, pulling her so close that every possible square inch of their bodies are pressed together. One legs snakes between hers, squeezing her leg between both of his. Determinedly he forces the hand that isn’t stroking her arm into the mattress and under her body, breaking to the surface near her ribcage and using the leverage to pull her even closer, if it’s even possible.

His touch isn’t tender or even reassuring; it’s desperate.

It feels like he’s trying to drown in her skin.

Still she lies limp and unmoving, cocooned in his body. It crosses her mind that she could stir in his arms, that perhaps she should. Wouldn’t most people wake up with this much nighttime stimulation, no matter how deeply asleep? But even though his hands are still new, new to them both, she can somehow sense that he’s not trying to wake her. He’s not exactly striving to keep her asleep, granted, what with his frantic pressure on her arm and the way he almost rhythmically contracts his arms around her waist every few seconds. But it’s like he’s seeking some sort of solace or absolution in her body and it’s the least she can offer her new-but-still haunted Doctor.

She’d offer up much more, if he’d accept it. Anything that might remove some of the burden from those impossibly deep brown eyes. 

His chest starts vibrating against her back, soft quivers at first that soon devolve into full-out heaving and dysrhythmic breaths, into twists of his hip that result in a full-body rocking. Not a noise comes out of his lips but before long she notices that her neck is wet.

She can’t deny it had been a trying and emotional day; she’d been struggling to sleep herself with the visuals and staggeringly heavy numbers of human growth and incineration at the New Earth hospital. Not to mention the feeling of Cassandra taking control of her mind. Taking control of his mind.

So she snuggles into his embrace with a muted sigh of contentment and draws his hand to her chest, firmly grasped in her own. Her eyes remain closed and she lets him direct the scene. She’s plausibly still sleeping or half-sleeping but hopes her acceptance of his presence is crystal clear. If he wants to talk she’s open but she can equally play pretend with him in the morning and let it be a forgotten dream. 

—-

The room is much brighter when she opens her eyes again and she feels…light. Like something is missing. There’s a rapid knocking on the door and she jolts upright.

"Rose?" he calls through the door. "Are you awake yet?"

"Come in," she calls out and sinks back into her pillow.

He hesitantly creaks open the door and pokes his head through. “Are you up?” he asks, staring at her ceiling.

"Not especially, but you can come all the way in, you know," she laughs. He’s displaying an awfully lot of decorum for someone who was sobbing into her neck a few hours ago. But that’s how he works.

One step forward, a billion steps back.

A smile breaks out on his face and he bounces into the room. “You’ve been sleeping for aaaages, Rose,” he whines with the corners of his lips pulled up. “I’ve landed us somewhere amazing and you’re spending it unconscious.”

"Really? Where?"

"Well," he draws out, "when I say I’ve _landed_ what I really mean is that I’ve typed in the coordinates of somewhere amazing.”

She grins at him. “Yeah, the landing’s the best part, huh?” She loves that he waited for her. Loves more than just that.

"Most definitely. Who would break my fall?"

She snorts and stretches her arms above her head. “What should I wear?”

"Er…" He looks slightly dazed, eyes at his feet, before recovering. "Something fun. Something in that backpack of clothes you took from the back of your closet at Jackie’s? I liked those."

"You mean the short skirts and clubbing outfits?" she asks, slightly incredulous and not a little bit flirty. She’s toeing a thin line here and she knows it.

"Er, yes, those," he confirms with a squirm, "Dress like you’re going out for the night. Um, to the pub, no, wait, somewhere hipper. Not out dancing necessarily, I’ve seen you London girls in your discotheque outfits…although…" He gets distracted for a moment, staring out into the distance.

"Discotheque?" she teases, "you are old, Doctor."

"That I am," he says quietly as he shuffles out of the room to let her change.

When she gets out of the shower, she remembers she left the backpack in the console room. Suppose she’ll have to change out there. He won’t mind.

She grins.

—-

The next night, after Queen Victoria and the werewolf, she collapses into bed with barely enough energy to strip off her dungarees and boots. The walk back to the TARDIS had seemed short enough, swinging arms with the Doctor and laughing about royal families with genetic conditions but she remembers now that it had been close to ten miles; ten miles to the Torchwood Estates and ten miles back, excluding the short wagon ride they caught. And she feels it in her legs, in her throbbing feet. Last night’s sleep in that musty, lumpy bed at the manor had been brief and disjointed, every scratch of the branch against the thick glass window jolting her awake.

She’s exhausted but she’s too tired to sleep, her body thrumming from the ache of sleep deprivation and muscle fatigue.

Light from the hall slowly creeps up her face and she opens her eyes. The Doctor stands silhouetted in the doorframe, his arms hanging limply at his side. It’s strange, even in the darkened shadow, awkward even, to see his animated arms and his excitable hands lying limp. He looks like a man about to walk to the execution block, a man walking to a bridge to stare trance-like at the rushing waters, a man without any hope, not even hope of hope.

And the look in his eyes when he meets hers… It’s like she’s the sharpened blade, like she’s the roaring current.

"Doctor," she breathes, feeling like someone has knocked the wind out of her lungs.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t fiddle with his tie, doesn’t shove his hands into pinstriped pockets. So she doesn’t say anything, so she lifts the corner of her duvet, and so she scoots to the far side of the bed, facing the wall.

When he finally moves, he moves so quietly that she startles when the bed dips and a cool breeze hits her bare legs. He’s under the covers, now, but he’s as far away from her as his skinny body can possibly curl itself.

She rolls over to face him.

“Nightmare?” she whispers, soft enough that he can feign sleep if he wants.

There’s a long silence and she thinks he’s chosen that option when he surprises her with a swallow and a puff of air so loud it’s like a geyser of steam will shoot out his mouth any second. “An eternal one.”

She scoots a little closer. “The Time War?” she asks quietly.

“No.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay,” she agrees softly, reaching out for his hand. He sucks in a gasp of air when she finds it. Using his arm like rope to his anchor, she moves closer to his tense form; slowly, slowly. When the gap has been conquered enough that his elbow bends back toward himself, she tucks his arm into her chest and curls up along his side. 

She says nothing as she strokes the outside of his hand.

He says nothing but he lets her comfort him.

She knows his eyes don’t close; she knows he’s watching her through the dim light.

He’s gone when she opens her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

He stays away the next night after their uneventful trip to a minor moon in her own galaxy but tonight he’s waiting on her bed when she wearily leans her weight against the door to close it. Mickey’s been shown a room down another corridor, one she hadn’t even known existed until five minutes ago, and she’s exhausted from having to force fake smiles across her face for the last hour.

“Thought you had repairs to do.”

“Thought you might be with Mickey tonight.”

“I’m not.”

“And I’m not doing repairs.”  
She knows it had been an emotional day for him but she hadn’t noticed until now the depth of the rings under his eyes, the chasms that make up the crinkles around his eyes.

“Do Time Lords get sick? You’ve been acting a little…well, not your usual self for the last few days.”

“Nah. Tired, that’s all.” There’s still darkness in his eyes but there’s also something else, something she can’t quite identify but knows she’s seen it before. In his previous self, especially. It’s akin to resignation but it seems so misplaced in this bouncy body.

Biting her lip, she watches him watch her. “Did you…want something?”

“Yes.” His eyes glaze over but he doesn’t break eye contact with her. “Can’t have it though.”

“Right…well, I’m going to change into my jim jams, you can…stay? If you want?”

He nods slowly and finally wrenches his gaze away from her and down at his hands. “Yeah.”

Grabbing the first pair of pajamas she finds balled up on her floor, she steps into the attached bathroom and quickly changes into them and brushes her teeth. She muses over the merits of taking a quick shower and shaving her legs (she certainly would if it were anyone else in her bed) but it seems too premeditated, too formal for a friendly bedtime cuddle. Because that’s all it ever had been and all it ever would be. He’d made that starkly clear last night outside the chippie.

He hasn’t shifted a muscle when she emerges. If anything, he’s tightened them, drawing more into himself. Is this some sort of alien Time Lord thing, to be so carefree and happy during the daylight hours and then fold into abject desolation when the lights go out?

Not that today had been carefree. Yesterday had been the first time he’d spoken in words what she’s been aware of in ephemeral ideas for months now: the mismatch in their lifetimes, the fact that all humans are no more than mayflies to his giant tortoise lifetime. She’d thought, just for a moment, that he was going to admit what she’s also hoped in nebulous terms lately, but, as always, his internal censors were too strong.

So she says nothing as she slides into bed, doesn’t joke or tease the man still sitting rigidly on the corner of her mattress.

All is quiet and still and thick.

And then he swallows and fists his hand in her duvet. “I… Good night, Rose.”

She ignores his escape attempt. “Those bat things were scary today. Don’t know if I’ll be able to fall asleep, much less avoid dreaming about them…”

Of all the creatures they’ve encountered together, the Krillitanes were really the least fear-provoking. And he knows this.

"Do…would it help if I stayed for awhile?"

She hides her smile in her pillow. “Please. If you don’t mind.”

His back finally relaxes slightly and he shrugs off his jacket and shoes. “Can’t let my companion miss out on her necessary sleep; it would be negligent of me.”

"Imagine if we were running tomorrow and I wasn’t in tip-top condition."

"Indeed. Good thinking, Rose. As always. You always—" He trails off.

"Always prepared, me," she quips, quoting herself from another time and another body. He smiles softly and slips under the duvet.

Did he comfort Sarah Jane like this too? Did he drape his arm across her waist and curl up behind her as she slept? Did they discuss their Loch Ness Monster adventure in hushed voices as the soft beat of the night intensified and lulled them to sleep?

Did Sarah Jane also barely suppress a shiver when he brushed his lips against the back of her neck in what their own culture might define as a nuzzle but the Doctor would probably categorise differently?

She’ll never ask and he’ll likely never tell.

He whispers something in a foreign language just as she’s falling into the abyss of sleep and she dreams of his tremulous voice.


	4. Chapter 4

The next night, after horses named Arthur and clockwork droids, she dares him to join her in bed. Shoots him a look of daggers and venom fashioned into an expression of haughty challenge that she immediately regrets at his wide-eyed reaction. But she doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look over her shoulder as she leads Mickey out of the TARDIS kitchen and down the bedroom corridor.

She’s angrier than she should be; she’s perfectly aware of that. And if he hasn’t been stroking her arms and burying her face in the nape of her neck for the past few nights, she knows her feelings of rejection and hurt would be dampened. But…damn it, what is she to him? She would have hoped that…never mind.

He’s alien, he’s different: she can’t keep trying to place him in human boxes of behaviour. He’d never crossed a line with her, has never gave her any unambiguous sign that he’d ever thought of her in any other than a platonic manner. And still she tastes the bitter tang of jealousy in her mouth as she stalks to her room and slams the door.

Mickey’s probably confused, suddenly abandoned in the corridor without as much as a goodnight.

But so is she.

She doesn’t bother dulling the sound of her frustrated growl as she rests her head against the door, knowing that the TARDIS keeps all the bedrooms soundproof.

"I’m sorry."

She jumps, knocking her skull against the doorframe in her startle reflex.

"How…how did you get here so quickly?" she splutters at the Time Lord perched on the arm of a chair. His head is cradled in his hands and he’s not looking at her.

"Shortcut," he mutters.

The fact that he’d startled her coupled with her already volatile emotional state doesn’t do him any favours. “You like those, don’t you?” she snaps and violently kicks off her trainers.

He ducks as one flies precariously close to his head.

"I’m sorry," he repeats and stands. "Rose, what I did today was impressively foolish, even for me. I didn’t think. I could have brought you through with me, I could have used the TARDIS to travel to France, I could have…" He wets his lips and then sighs. "I wish I could say that I won’t do it again. But it seems I’m going to continue making decisions without your input, and…I can’t apologise enough. I’ll never be able to apologise enough." His last words are strangled.

"I’m not upset about that," she snaps but any further words are cut off by a tightening in her throat and a screaming by the more rational parts of her brain to stop talking.

"What are you upset about?" he asks softly and takes a hesitant step toward her. "Whatever it is…I’m sorry. You deserve better than this."

She crosses her arms. “Forget I said anything. I’m over it.”

Crossing the last few paces, he lays a hand on each of her upper arms. “You’re clearly not and you have every right to be angry. I deserve it.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “Tell you what. Be completely honest with me and I’ll be honest with you. We can pretend it never happened in the morning, if you’d like.”

"What?" The anger that has just began to simmer down boils up again with a vengeance. "You finally want to be honest and then forget about it?"

"If you want." His eyes drift upward, calculating, and light up for a brief second before returning to his look of contrition. "Or not. If I’m right, it will…er, could change things in the morning too. Things could change between us, even if it’s too ephemeral to pinpoint…"

"Are you speaking in tongue?" Rose sets her jaw and wriggles out of his grasp. "Just go skulk off to wherever you go at night."

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks carefully.

No. Of course she doesn’t want him to leave. But she doesn’t want him to stay either. So she stalks to the bathroom and closes the door behind her. No noises carry from behind the door but she also doesn’t hear the bedroom door open, so she sinks down with her back to the tub and attempts to organise her chaotic emotions.

Only a minute passes before he knocks lightly on the door.

"Rose? I…Can I come in?"

She sighs and kicks her leg out to nudge open the door.

He crouches in front of her and she stares at her hands. “I think we’ve wasted enough time dancing around what we’re really feeling, hmm? Time…time isn’t unlimited, as much as I try with the TARDIS…”

Her head nods but she still doesn’t meet his eye.

"Shall I go first?"

She says nothing.

He swallows. “You mean…everything to me. Everything.”

Smiling weakly, she picks at the skin around her nails. “Ditto.”

"I…" He censors himself but then shakes his head, taking her hand in both of his. "I can’t handle anymore regret. Rose, there’s never been anyone more important to me than you. And there won’t ever be, I… Do you know what I’m trying—oh so inelegantly—to say?" he pleads.

She finally looks up at him. ”I can’t read between the lines anymore, Doctor. I’m tired of it.”

He nods and takes a deep breath, settling back onto the balls of his heels. “Do you know, that back then, er, earlier today, Reinette kissed me?”

Rose opens her mouth but he hastily places a finger on her lips. She stills as if his finger has magical silencing properties, and maybe it does; maybe when it’s on her lips, it—

"It meant absolutely nothing. All I could think about was you. It startled me, back then, that fact. The fact that all I wanted—"

It’s not just her mouth that is frozen, shock-still now. Every tiny noise in the room is heightened: the occasional drip of the faucet, the ticking of a clock drifting in from her room, the sound of her ragged breathing.

"All I wanted was to kiss _you_.”

There’s still a little impulsivity drawn from residual anger thrumming in her veins and for the second time that evening she dares him.

"Why don’t you?"

If she’d thought he’d widen his eyes again or babble something inherent, she’d been gloriously wrong. Instead, it’s his lips that widen into the biggest smile she’s ever seen on his face, and that’s saying something.

"Why not indeed," he murmurs and his hands move to either side of her face. "I shouldn’t and yet it’s one of my greatest regrets." His gaze drops to her lips, mesmerised for a moment before snapping back up to her eyes. There’s vulnerability but also hope when he finally speaks again.

"May I?"

"Yeah," she only barely finishes whispering before his mouth swallows up the final phoneme when it crashes down on hers. He’s gentle, almost reverent at first, sucking and drawing her lower lip into his mouth while caressing her cheeks with his thumbs, but as the surrealism of the situation begins to fade and she begins to eagerly respond, a trickle of urgency begins to flood through.

His tongue swipes against the seam of her lips and she opens them immediately, inhaling for what is to be the last time in a chaotic minute of his tongue exploring and stroking. It isn’t until her lungs are aching that she remembers that perhaps she should take another breath, pulling back from his lips’ seal with a desperate gasp for air.

She feels his smile against her mouth, still close but allowing her to breathe, and then he contorts his head down to her neck, latching onto the a patch just right of her throat and sucking as if he’s suckling nourishment from her skin. She isn’t able, can’t be bothered, to repress the deep moan that escapes her lips and he groans and bites down gently in response.

The Doctor wobbles in his still-crouched position and without detaching himself from her neck, he sits back and pulls her onto her knees to straddle his lap.

"I can’t even tell you how long I’ve wanted to taste you," he intones into her skin and she shudders as the vibrations from his lips travel down her spine to pool between her legs. He notices, smiling as he moves his lips down to her collarbone and continues talking.

"I wanted to kiss you in the street in Deffry Vale. So badly." He trails his fingers up her legs and cups her denim-clad bum. "I wanted to put my hands up that sinfully short skirt the whole time we were in Scotland and do this."

Her head is buzzing and foggy when he pulls her down into his lap so she can feel exactly how much he’s affected; she whimpers as the large bulge in his pinstripes ruts against her centre and her lust-addled brain struggles to process the fact that there’s a bulge at all, that he’s affected and he’s affected by her and her nightly dreams may be within grasp after all.

Feverish hands snake under her t-shirt and she raises her arms above her head to speed the process along. It’s on the tile floor seconds later and his lips are on her clavicle, teeth grazing her skin as he moves south.

"Before I knew Cassandra had possessed you, all I could think about was this," he mumbles as he sucks on the upper swell of each breast, "and this. And how they would taste, warm and salty and in my mouth". 

"Doctor," she grinds out with a shudder as he pushes aside one of her bra cups and circles an aureole with the apex of his tongue. His hands lightly scrape up her spine and her brain melts into a puddle of unadulterated need. Her hands, passive until this moment or fisted in his oxford, suddenly can’t get enough of touching him, dragging along his cheeks, his hair, the backs of his hands. In a flash of utility, she reaches behind her and unhooks the constraining garment, needing to feel more of his lips on more of her skin.

He freezes as she’s revealed to him but it’s not a stillness of fear; it’s a look of adulation. Sitting back, he stares unabashedly, his mouth half askew.

"You’re so beautiful," he manages to croak out before dropping his mouth to suck and tug at a hardened nipple. She rocks her hips into him, too far gone to establish any sort of regular rhythm, and he slides his hands down to grip her hips, guiding her movements into a steady pace as he continues to lick and tease her breasts.

This…he…skin. She needs more skin and his skin is hidden away under layers. Always with the layers… They need to be gone. Immediately.

Why do buttons exist? Why must they be so complicated, evading her efforts to de-shirt the Doctor? She understands velcro more than she ever imagined she would. Velcro’s good…good on toddler shoes and ideal for stiff oxfords.

"And that maid’s ou—wait, never mind," he continues, his mouth still circling and nipping at her nipple. "Remember that scarf you wore in Cardiff? The long one? All I could think about was tying you up with it. Tying up your hands and ravishing you on my bed. Asked the TARDIS for a headboard with slats that night, even though I knew it could never happen. Thoughts of that scarf, or rather you in that scarf and nothing else, fuelled many lonely nights."

She takes two hands and rips open his shirt. Buttons be damned.

He doesn’t notice them clattering to the tile floor.

"And, oh, _Rassilon_ , that red dress. The other time in Cardiff, the first time. When I said you looked beautiful considering you were human—” He moves to her other breast, first trailing his tongue down the dip above her breastbone,”—what I really meant was you were beautiful considering you weren’t naked, writhing in my arms. And I wanted you to be, the moment you walked into the console room. I wanted you then and I want you now and I hate myself for being such a coward. All this time. But not anymore. Not when there are ill-gotten second chances to be had.”

"Doctor," she finds herself whining as he holds himself above her, his lips no longer touching her. That, and the fact that there are at least two more layers between her and the skin of his chest.

"Stand up?" he requests softly.

She scrambles ungainly to her feet and he follows her. Standing face to face, he kisses her as his hands weave a lazy path down her sides to the waistband of her jeans. His nails lightly scrape the sensitive skin of her lower belly as they move toward the button.

"This okay?" he whispers as his fingers hover above the clasp.

She shakes her head and gently pushes him back. He’s panting and he’s disheveled and he’s panicked and she refuses to do anything else until he removes all those bloody layers.

"I need to touch you first,” she says, biting her lip against a nervous smile, and begins to work on removing his shirt and undershirts again, this time without the awkward positioning and distraction of his mouth. When she glances up at him once the shirt is crumpled on the floor and the undershirts have been tugged over his head, she’s startled to see streams of liquid racing down his cheeks.

He strokes the back of his thumb along her jawline for a moment and then buries his face in her shoulder in the same way his previous body had done with that first Dalek in Utah. “I’ve needed to touch you too- oh, god, have I needed to touch you… Memories…they’re not enough. Rose, I can’t…I don’t know how I’m supposed to—”

There’s something about his posture, the undertone of his puzzling words that makes her want to gently shush him, something that dampens her buzzing arousal and draws out another type of love. He’s broken, he’s so broken, and while only a minute ago her entire attentional focus had contracted to the relentless quest for friction and completion and skin, it’s now fixated on him. It isn’t quite what she imagines maternal love to feel like, but it’s only a few shades away.

So she does shush him, quietly and comfortingly while reaching up to brush away the tracks of his tears. “I can’t even pretend to understand what’s hurting you right now, but…let’s just cuddle yeah?”

He nods wordlessly and she takes his hand and leads him to the bed. They’re both still wearing trousers and after a moment’s hesitation, she unbuckles his pinstripes and slides them down his hips, maintaining a tight gaze on his eyes. In a swift move, her jeans are littering the messy floor too and she pulls him under the covers and curls up into his bare chest. Her legs entangle with his, smooth skin against downy hair, and she wraps an arm around his back, drawing him even closer.

His cries into her neck are silent and he’s gone when she opens her eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Mickey’s gone, confined to another universe because of her (or at least partially because of her) and she’s hurting when she squeezes the Doctor’s hand briefly before excusing herself to the solace of sleep. She’d needed her mother’s hugs, but the adrenaline is fading now. He doesn’t let go, threading his fingers through hers and clutching them tightly as he flicks the necessary levers and turns the requisite knobs to return them to the vortex from London.

The ship ceases its movement and comes to rest. He doesn’t release her hand but he doesn’t speak either, busying himself with patting his pockets and other unnecessary fidgets.

"I wouldn’t have stayed there, you know," she reassures him quietly after a moment.

"Of course you wouldn’t!" He adopts his usual manic grin. "Why would you? Alternate beans on toast aren’t any tastier than good old prime universe options." He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

  
Not rising to his desperate attempt to make light of the situation, she fixes him with a solemn look. “I wouldn’t leave you. You’re stuck with me, remember?”

His grin falters and he stares at her. She doesn’t miss the brief diversion of his gaze from her eyes to her lips and can’t help but bite them under the intensity of his expression.

"I couldn’t forget that. Rose, I…" He raises his hand but drops it again. The grin she’s coming to label as his daylight protective wall reemerges and he changes the subject. "You were brilliant today."

She snorts and fiddles with his jacket sleeve with her free hand. “Not sure what I actually did, but thanks. Even in an impossible trip, we always manage to find trouble, don’t we?”

He’s fixated on her hand on his arm and doesn’t reply immediately. “Yeah.”

"Doctor?"

"Mmm?" he hums, still distracted by something. She returns her hand to her own personal space and his glazed expression clears somewhat.

"I’m knackered; think I need to sleep for days. But you know you can join me any night, yeah?"

His eyes widen and he steps back. “What?”

Internally rolling her eyes but maintaining a neutral expression, she allows him his flustered distance-grappling. “Just wanted to put that out there. It’s a big bed, designed for two. Better with two, actually.”

He’s still gawping at her as she brushes her thumb across his hand and disentangles it, turning and walking out of the console room. Glancing back at him before she turns the corner, she notices he’s taken a few steps but appears to have come to a halt again, staring after her with indecision and longing in his eyes.

—

She’s asleep when the door creaks open but the light from the hall wakes her up. Flipping over onto her stomach, she cracks open a light-shy eye at the Time Lord’s silhouette.

"Glad you decided to come," she mumbles, her cheek planted into the mattress.

"You have no idea how long I paced outside your door. The coward in me won out though, and I practically sprinted to my own room and bolted the door." His words are quiet and there’s a tinge of resentment there.

"You’re here now though."

"I’m here now," he says without a hint of a smile in his voice.

Flipping back the covers, she pats the sheets. “Come on, then.”

The cool air prickles her sleep-coddled skin as he stands in the doorway, apparently still uncertain. “Rose… I shouldn’t, you don’t….I’m not…”

She studies him for a moment. “What did I say tonight?”

"That your bed’s better with two," he responds immediately, the words flowing off his tongue as if they’ve been lying in wait. For once his speech appears ahead of his inhibitions and he blushes and shoves his hands in his pockets, looking away. "I couldn’t forget that."

"Good. Make up your mind, then; I’m freezing." She smiles when she hears him slip off his suit jacket and toe off his shoes.

All is silent again and with a sigh she opens her eyes and sits up to view the alien. He’s fingering the buttons of his oxford, hesitancy blaring out from his posture.

In one smooth motion, she crosses her arms and lifts her knee-length sleep top over her head.

The sight of her bare skin, of her exposing herself body and heart to him, seems to break down one of those damn self-imposed walls and he takes a deep breath and strips himself of his trousers and shirt and his undershirts and his hesitation.

She’s in his arms moments later, her hardened nipples brushing along his naked chest and sending a shot of heat down her spine. When she captures his lower lip, he doesn’t pay its ransom, rolling them over so that he’s hovering over her instead.

What she feels beginning to press against her stomach only stokes the fire and she squirms below him, needing more than just the taste of his plump lip. He opens his mouth and explores her mouth gently, sucking on her tongue as he pulls back finally to meet her eye. His eyes are darker than she’s ever seen them, his pupils so wide she fails to see any hint of the normal brown. She’s panting but he’s still; if not for the look in his eyes and his hardness swelling against her abdomen, she’d think he was calm and unaffected.

"Rose, there’s things you need to know, things I’ve done. Dangerous things. I’m not who you think I am, I…" He sighs and rests his forehead on hers. "But I can’t tell you. I shouldn’t be here at all." She can feel the effort his words are exerting in every terse muscle against her skin.

She shakes her head and darts up for a hard kiss on his lips. “I always want you here. Anywhere. I want you for who you are, not what you’ve done. And I know you well enough that your actions are never taken lightly, whatever they are. Okay?”

Another wall disintegrates and he drops his lips to her neck with a growing ferocity, a burning need to taste every inch of her skin. She knows because the same desire is itching at her too and she runs her hands frantically across his back, along his sharp hipbones and flat stomach, behind the ears she’d loved even when they were more prominent, in the strands of hair she often watches him tug at with envy.

 _“For having lost but once your prime, you may forever tarry…”_ he whispers brokenly into the pulse point of her neck and without losing connection with her skin, trails his lips down to her breast bone and sucks hard at the portion of her breast over her heart. He’s claiming a piece of her that’s already his but in the morning she’ll have his mark as proof. Dropping down to rest his weight on his forearms, his hips rut against hers; she parts her legs and he slots down between her thighs like he’s been shaped to fit.

Perhaps he has been.

When she arches her pelvis against his, seeking out more, greater, deeper friction, he moves his mouth to her nipple. At her stifled moan he bites down in response, hard enough to eke out a whimper. She wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him closer.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," he pleads into her chest, quietly at first but rising in volume and confidence. "Never think I don’t love you, please Rose, please…"

"I know," she half-laughs, half-cries and tugs at his hair to pull him for a kiss. "And I—"

He cuts her off, forming an airtight seal with his lips and sucking the oxygen out of her words like they’re a flame. After a moment, he disengages with a finger over her mouth and rests his forehead on hers, breathing heavily now.

"Don’t," he begs, "please, don’t say it yet, I want… There are certain timelines I want intact. I _need_ intact, I…”

She has no idea what he’s going on about, but she closes her lips. If he doesn’t want her to tell him how she feels, she’ll show him. With a sharp twist of her hips, she reverses their positions and kisses him on his mouth where it’s parted in surprise before working her way down his jaw, along his neck, down his chest. When she reaches his navel, she circles it with her tongue before continuing south, grazing her teeth along the thin skin above his pubic bone.

He shudders and bucks against her. Glancing up at him behind her eyelashes, she lowers her lips to suck on a hipbone; his eyes are screwed closed and his head is flung back into a pillow.

"Rose," he groans and can’t stop himself from bucking up again, despite his best efforts. She sits up, straddling his thighs, and traces her fingers along the hem of his boxer briefs. "May I?" she asks, her tongue resting between her lips as she watches him, sure of his answer.

“Fuck yes,” he blurts out desperately and then clamps his mouth closed with a wide-eyed expression of apology. “Sorry, sorry, yes, um—”

One of her hands moves to the space between his hearts and she feels them beating rapidly against her thumb and pinky. “Aren’t you tired of censoring yourself all the time? It must be exhausting… Don’t anymore, yeah? Take the night off.”

He nods without much conviction but she knows it’s a start and goes back to his straining pants. “And let’s liberate other things too, shall we?” Carefully, she stretches the waistband over his very full and very large erection and tugs off the constraining cotton.

She licks her lips and begins to lower her mouth over her prize, but he stops her with a regretful and rather desperate hand.

"No, don’t, I can’t…I want to be inside you the first time, please. I don’t know if I can… " He swallows and brushes her hair away from where it’s draped in front of her face. "I mean, if that’s okay."

"Your wish is my command," she grins, whipping off her knickers and crawling up him so that she’s straddling his hips. Taking hold of him, she strokes him once and runs his length through her eager folds, coating him in her copious wetness and indulging in a few rubs against her swollen clit.

A formless cry breaks from his lips as she plays and he fists his hands in the duvet to stop himself from trusting up into her. She lines him up and bends forward to kiss him as she slowly sinks down and engulfs him.

It’s a good thing she’s demanded control for this first time because he fills her just under the point of pain, stretching her wide. She clamps his lower lip between her teeth at the last few inches, letting out a guttural groan against his mouth as she’s finally fully impaled.

“ _Fuck_ , Rose, _fuck_!” he hisses, grabbing her hips in a bruising vise.

It’s good, it’s _oh_ so good, being spread to her limits, but she also needs a moment to adjust to his girth and sits up. He lets out a loud moan and shuts his eyes, moving one of his hands up to fumble at her breasts as he tries to collect himself.

After a few seconds, she experimentally lifts up off him slightly and lowers herself back down, shudders of pleasure rocking her core. He groans something incoherent and returns both hands to her hips. He doesn’t guide her and he keeps his hips immobile, as much as she can see him straining to move.

She stills and captures his lips again. “Don’t hold back, okay? I want you, I want this.”

He takes a deep breath. And another. And just when she’s worrying he’s rebuilding all his myriad defenses, he growls and flips them over, managing to remain inside her despite the quick position reversal.

"Okay?" he forces out and the muscles in his arms are already trembling. He’s coated in a thin layer of sweat and his entire body is rigid above her. His eyes, though: his eyes are looking at her like she’s the lynchpin holding together his universe.

She wraps her legs him and he slides in more deeply again. “Better than okay.”

It’s clumsy and frenetic, this first time, full of frenzied imperatives and slobbery kisses. There’s no slow build up, no lazy long strokes; from the offset his thrusts are erratic and relentless, pulling out and slamming home in a faltering rhythm she can’t hope to match, can only hold onto the bed sheets for purchase and hope to ride out his maelstrom. She answers each plunge with exhalations that twist into grunts, deep and low and encouraging; he echoes with incoherent noises muted by sloppy sucks along her neck.

Pleasure and need and feverish ache pluck the strings of every cell in her body, fraying every molecule until there’s nothing left but desire. She’s a being of pure wild desire; she’s liquefied and she’s attempting to merge with the parallel creature above her.

She sees stars long before the ceiling seemingly cracks open and she falls through time and space, clawing at his back so she doesn’t lose him. But he’s right there with her, falling and crying out the same foreign words he whispered in her sleep two nights earlier.

“ _Allyia; amorla. Allyia; amorha!_ ”

His words taper off and the only sound is their heavy respiration.

The sheets are twisted and damp when she finally opens her eyes again and he’s all-but-collapsed on top of her, his arms barely managing to hold his limp form off her torso and his eyes glassy. With weak arms, she enfolds him in a tight embrace and pulls him down to rest on her body, tucking his head in the crook of her neck and dazedly stroking his sweat-sculpted hair. He idly palms a breast and tweaks its nipple as they catch their breaths.

"I love you, I love you; Rose, I love you; I love you, Rose," he repeats incredulously over and over again into her skin after his breathing returns to normal but once again he stills her with a finger over her lips when she tries to return the sentiment. "No, don’t; please. I’ve wasted so many opportunities to tell you and I need to make it up to you. I need the balance to… Rose Tyler, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Never forget that, okay? Never forget that I love you. No matter what."

“Never,” she promises. (Forever, she says in her head.)

Pulling her close before rolling over so that his softening length remains inside her, he lies on his side and tugs the duvet over their rapidly cooling bodies. As their breathing syncs up and with a contented kiss to the side of his mouth, she closes her eyes and falls into a sated sleep.

And when she opens her eyes again, lying in a damp patch and stickiness between her thighs, she’s not surprised she’s alone. But the spot beside her is faintly warm and there’s a cooling mug of tea on the nightstand with two heart shaped chocolates.

—-

The Doctor’s sitting in the galley when she emerges fresh from her shower, his back to the door and stirring his finger though one of the cups of tea in front of him. He grins when he hears her.

"Rose! Thought you’d never get out of bed this morning!"

Not entirely sure how to act around him after last night (is he going to skitter away again?), she kisses his cheek before rummaging through the cabinet for a cereal bowl. When she looks back over at him while pouring her Weetabix, she’s only slightly bemused to see him staring at her with a blush on his cheeks.

"Late night," she teases with a tongue-tipped smile and he snaps his eyes down to his hands.

Sitting on the bench next to him rather than in her customary seat across the table, she scoots in close enough that the outsides of their thighs are pressed together. He breaks into a pleased but ultimately goofy smile and hesitantly drapes his arm around her shoulders. She hums appreciatively and entangles their legs under the table.

"Tea?" He slides a mug closer to her and zaps it with his sonic. His smile hasn’t faded despite his obvious fight with his upturned lips.

"More tea? You spoil me."

He gives her a strange look but even that can’t dampen his grin. “That’s me! Your daily tea-delivery alien.”

"Not so alien, after all," she quips lightly, sliding her right arm behind his back and proceeding to eat her breakfast left-handed.

From his furrowed brows she takes the hint that he’s not ready to discuss last night. With a small shrug, she presses her cheek into his arm momentarily and turns back to her cereal. He’s not running away, so that’s something. And she’s patient. He’ll get there.

Eventually.

"Shall we rest today?" he asks after a bit. "It was a rough day yesterday and—"

Too giddy after last night to contemplate staying in one place, she swallows her bite and interrupts him. “Nah. Let’s do something fun. We never made it to that rock concert the other day. Try again?”

His hand tenses and then begins to stroke her arm with his thumb, drawing tight circles and doubtlessly distracted spirals. “Right-o! You’re brilliant, you are. Let’s go big: how would Elvis do you?”

"What? Seriously?" She squeals in happiness, leaning into his chest and listening to his rapid heartbeats. It’s possible that he drops a kiss or a nuzzle to the top of her head, but she’s not sure.


	6. Chapter 6

She didn’t see Elvis in concert. Didn’t see much of anything for awhile.

It’s been a rough day, but she suspects it’s been worse from the Doctor’s end when he wordlessly tucks her into his side in the TARDIS during the dematerialisation sequence. He’d seemed relaxed during the street party, but now that they’re back to the quiet of the ship, she can see that it had all been a façade.

When she reluctantly tries to detach herself from his grip, he only pulls her closer and leads her down the corridor. He hasn’t said much of anything since the TARDIS doors closed, only hums and grunts in response to her questions and observations, and his mental state is beginning to worry her. It reminds her of the first couple of nights he began joining her in bed.

"Are you staying tonight?" she finally asks after a minute of standing in the doorway with him, staring at the contents of her bedroom.

He tenses up but after a moment he nods. “If…if you don’t mind.”

"I’ll never mind. Quite the opposite." She rubs his arm and he seems to relax slightly, finally releasing his death grip on her waist. Stepping into the room, she unzips the Moto jacket and lets it fall onto the floor, leaving her in the heavy pink dress with its thin shoulder straps. Without the jacket, this dress is like a ball gown and she does a quick spin to let the skirt pouf out around her.

"I love this dress. Don’t suppose I could convince you to find somewhere I could wear it again?"

The Doctor makes a strangled sound, hastily clearing his throat shortly thereafter. “Hmm? What?”

She raises an eyebrow at him but grabs a clean pair of pajamas from the wardrobe and goes into the ensuite to change. Not really sure why she feels the need to de-robe in the bathroom after last night, she pushes away her niggling insecurities and reminds herself that he needs time. He’s here, after all: not hiding away under the console or something. The last thing she wants is to spook him, especially now that things are moving forward between them. Moving forward in bursts and backpeddlings, but still, the trajectory seems to be upward so she’s content.

When she exits the bathroom, teeth brushed and face washed, he’s still standing in the doorway. Internally rolling her eyes, she smiles at him and slips under the covers, patting the covers in the same way she’d had to do only a few days ago.

A giant leap forward, a quantum leap backward.

After a moment, he appears to have steeled himself and sits down in a chair to untie his shoelaces and loosen his tie. Having only removed his Chucks from his clothing-armour, he pulls up the duvet and gingerly sits on top, his back against the headboard.

"Not tired?" she enquires as she shifts to make herself comfortable, curling up on her side to face him.

"Nah. I don’t need much sleep, me."

Something about his phraseology reminds her on her first Doctor and her lips quirk up at the memory.

"So you’re just going to sit there…?"

He shrugs his shoulders. “I might read.” But he makes no move to locate a book, just watches her.

She closes her eyes under his intense scrutiny. A moment later, she feels a feather-light touch of his finger on her cheeks, trailing a line across her nose and to the other side. It moves up her face, tracing circles around her eyes and down to brush against her lips. She shivers.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I…It was awful, seeing you faceless today. No features, just a flat plain. I’m sorry for letting that happen to you."

Opening her eyes, she regards him calmly. “It’s not your fault. I’m pretty sure that one’s all on me. Besides, you saved the day, everything’s fine. I’m fine.”

"There’ve been too many close calls lately. Always. I sometimes wish…" He swallows and breaks eye contact. "Anyway. Sweet dreams, Rose."

Her eyes drift shut but not before she threads her fingers through his. “Night, Doctor.”

—-

At some during the night, she feels him slide under the duvet but he curls up in foetal position at the very edge of the bed, his back toward her.

—-

He wakes her with tea and rested eyes.

"Well, Rose Tyler, what will it be today? There’s a spa planet in the Fronmula Galaxy known for effervescent hot springs, or a planet made up of only beaches and coral ridges: we could go snorkeling! Better than your Great Barrier Reef!"

Half asleep, she pulls his outstretched hand, knocking him off balance and onto the bed. Curling up around him, she pulls the duvet over their heads and lets her eyelids drift closed again.

"Five more minutes," she mumbles into his chest.

After a moment, his arm wraps around her, anchoring her to his side. “Five more minutes,” he agrees and even through the beginnings of her dream, she can hear the contented pleasure in his voice.

—-

She suggests using the randomizer button for their trip that day. He’s a little giddy when he agrees.

"You think there’ll be trouble?" she jokes, her tongue peeking through her teeth and _oh, yes_ , that’s intentional.

"Us run into trouble? Never! Do your worst, universe!" he cries and leaps around the console table, turning more dials than are probably strictly necessary. The TARDIS groans but the Doctor only grins at Rose as he forces the landing sequence, despite his time ship’s protests


	7. Chapter 7

She thinks he's going in for a kiss when he sets her back on the floor after their most vigorous hug yet (excluding certain naked ones a few days back), even closes her eyes and begins to purse her lips, but he only tucks her hair behind her ears and turns to the console. 

He unzips his orange spacesuit with efficiency and she laughs. "You wore your full suit under there?" she asks, incredulous but not surprised. 

"Of course!" He straightens his tie and preens a little. "We do our best work together, this suit and I."

"Good thing you didn't wear your jacket today; it would have been long gone into that black hole, huh?" She fidgets with a lever and wishes she's fidgeting with his hair.

"Thought that to myself once or twice too. That would have been a horrible loss." His eyes soften and he leans back against the console. "Almost lost you too. That would have been worse."

He calls up the rocket and she joins him at his side, tears hovering just under the surface of her eyes and she's not entirely sure why. They sign off with Ida and the remaining members of the crew. 

_You two: who are you?_

_Oh, the stuff of legend._

He flicks the switch on the screen and all is silent as he turns toward her, fixing his gaze on hers but saying nothing. His brown eyes are strangely blue and his suit jacket seems too formal. "Doctor, that…creature. He said—"

His eyes snap back into neutral and he turns away, ostensibly buffing a random instrument. "I told you. He lied. End of story." 

She says nothing. 

She tries not to think of the more tragic legends as he squeezes her hand and bids her goodnight, promising to see her in the morning with her usual cup of tea. Of Romeo and Juliet, and Lancelot and Guinevere, and that Greek one where the lover loses his love and has to seek her out in hell, losing her when he can't resist looking back. 

\--

When he joins her as she's drifting off to a fitful and fragmented sleep, a spark of hope flairs in her heart that maybe both he _and_ the beast had lied that day. In contrast to last night, he's not tentative at all, silently slipping under the covers and drawing her into his arms immediately. 

"I thought—" she starts but he cuts her off with a shushing sound. His breath is cool on her neck and she shivers. 

Rolling over and flicking on the bedside lamp on its lowest setting so she can see him, she's startled to see how dark the rings under his eyes have become. He looks like he hasn't slept in months despite looking so rested this morning. Even after they'd been reunited this evening, he hadn't looked anywhere near this ragged or broken. What happens to Time Lords at night? Do their defenses break down when the lights go out?

"I shouldn't be here." He looks down at the sheets but doesn't relinquish her from his firm hold. "Not at all, it's so dangerous, but…I missed you, it's been days since—" He clamps his jaw shut and ruffles his hair. And then returns his hand to her back.

"Why is it dangerous?" She bites her lip, suspecting she doesn't want to know the answer. 

He's silent. And then all at once, he lunges at her, slamming his lips against hers and pillaging her mouth. He's seeking some sort of absolution and she does her best to grant it. She falls backward onto the bed again and he follows, never relinquishing her lips.

"I can't change time, Rose, I can't fix it. And it's running out. You'll—there won't be any days left. No more nights. And I can't do anything to stop it."

Reaching up, she smoothens back his flattened fringe and strokes his cheekbone with the side of her thumb. "Isn't some time together better than none? Even if it's only a few decades; even if decades are only days relative to your long lifespan. I know I can't fully understand, but… Even if I knew I could only be with you for a few days, I'd still choose to spend them with you. The only thing I could ever regret is not seizing every possible minute."

There's a moment of silence and she thinks maybe, just maybe, she's gotten through to him. Then he sighs. "You don’t know who I am; what I'm capable of doing."

"Tell me then. Or don't. Either way, whatever you've done or whoever you are, I'm yours. Unconditionally."

She's gotten through to him. His lips are back on hers, biting down and teasing between his teeth. "No more wasted time," he mumbles, raking his fingers through her hair as his other arm braces his body above her. "I want every millisecond with you."

This time, their lovemaking is slow, quiet, and although he strokes her to completion twice before he even enters her, and although he comes inside her three times that night, not another word is spoken aloud. 

She doesn't need his words, tonight. His silent adulations could fill a library.

\--

The spot beside her is warm again when she wakes up, but this time she's not sticky and there's a folded pile of clean pyjamas and a yellow rose on top of the duvet. Stretching out languidly, she grins as she feels the soreness between her legs and in the muscles of her thighs. She must have been really passed out if she didn't even notice him cleaning her up this morning. Not that she's surprised. It had been an incredible, if exhausting, night. 

After a shower, she pulls on a t-shirt the same colour as the flower and hopes he'll notice as she pads to the kitchen in search of her missing morning tea. He must, smiling daftly but angling his face toward her when she leans down to kiss him on the cheek. 

"My yellow Rose," he hums, immediately searching for something to fidget with as his words reach his brain. A teacup is upset in his flustered fumblings. 

She laughs and passes him a tea towel to sop up the spill. "That better not have been my cup," she teases with a smile. "I need some caffeine pronto."

He's still a little flustered and only shakes his head as he devotes more attention than necessary to ensuring the table is spotless, pointing to an undisturbed cup on the sideboard. 

A cup of tea flanking a dish of steaming hot oatmeal with berries arranged artfully on top.

"You made me breakfast?" It's hard to keep a smile rising on her face so she doesn't.

He grunts a noise of affirmation and she kisses his cheek again. "Thanks. You didn't have to do that… I didn't know you could do anything in the kitchen apart from boiling water in the kettle!"

He looks affronted, puffing his chest out slightly as he stands and throws the wet towel in the direction of the corridor. "I'll have you know I'm quite skilled in the cooking department."

Rose grabs the tea and oatmeal and carefully carries them over to the table. He scoots over to make a spot beside him on the bench and she smiles as she sits down. 

"You going to cook for me, then?"

His face lights up as he tucks her under his arm. "Do you want me to cook for you?"

"Yeah, 'course I do! What am I, an idiot?" They both tense at the unintentional reference to her missing friend and she plows ahead to reduce the tension. And because she doesn't want to miss out on the opportunity literally being handed to her on a plate. "What can you make?"

The Doctor kicks lightly at her feet in a game of footsie so recognisable that it must be a universal phenomenon. "Anything. Anything you want."

"Sunday roast?"

"I think I can manage that. Tonight?"

"Is it Sunday?" she jokes, chuffed beyond measure that they're discussing him cooking her a meal. It's almost a date and she wonders if he views it that way too. 

"For you, Rose Tyler, I'll land somewhere on a Sunday. For authenticity."

She snuggles closer into his chest in a wordless gesture of approval; he swipes a blackberry off the top of her bowl, the juice staining his lips, and closes his eyes like a contented housecat when she uses her thumb to wipe them clean. His hand, resting on her shoulder, digs slightly into her skin when he hears her pop the finger into her mouth but he doesn't open his eyes. 

She tells him he’s sweet and he hums happily.

\--

It’s a mostly uneventful day, a bit of running and coloured buckets but nothing like the past few days. Their Sunday roast beef had been sacrificed for the greater good but the Doctor stills roasts up a chicken and prepares all the trimmings. She’s forbidden from helping so she takes a shower and changes into loungewear before making them both tea and sitting at the table, laughing at his attempts to distract her from the smoking Yorkshire puddings and popping up to hug him when he looks crestfallen.

“Never cared for Yorkshire puds anyway,” she assures him, patting his shoulder as they stare at the charcoal bricks in the pan. 

“That’s flagrantly untrue, Rose Tyler. They’re your favourite after chips.” His lower lip is precariously close to jutting out.

“Nah, you’re my favourite after chips,” she teases and the lower lip goes back to its rightful place. Well, rightful place would be between her teeth, but that’s another story. 

He plaits her still-damp hair as they wait for the second batch to cook and she bites her tongue at the blatant domesticity going on. 

Jackie calls just as she’s settled down in his lap so he can do the other side and suddenly they’re both angry, possibly for different reasons. She quickly stops by her room to slip on trousers and a jacket over her hoodie and meets him in the console room. He smiles when he sees that she didn’t comb out his braids and she shoots him a wink before going back to worrying about her mother.

When they finally get back to the galley, the puddings are golden brown but the chicken is dry as a bone. She eats it anyway, complimenting the grumpy chef, and he walks her to her room after the dishes are clean. With a blushing kiss on her cheek, he bids her goodnight and she watches him practically float down the corridor. 

\--

He comes back only a few minutes later, his jacket removed and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. His lips explore every square inch of her buzzing skin before he takes off the rest of his clothes and slides inside her with a moan of relief. 

It’s not a night for silence; instead he keeps up a running commentary, soft and quixotic, and she’s on such an emotional high when she comes the first time that she barely notices the difference. 

When he leaves, around the time that the simulated sun begins to rise, he kisses her and tells her he loves her, making sure she’s heard him before letting her go back to sleep. She turns onto her stomach and inhales his scent in the sheets.

\---

Her tea arrives on foot about an hour later, warm and sweet, and she pulls the man carrying it into bed, catching a quick cuddle before the day begins. She mumbles something about him wearing too many layers when his shirt and tie prevent her from nuzzling into the skin of his neck and he traces circles on her arms but doesn’t respond.

When she meets him in the console room later, he’s wearing only a thin Henley under his suit jacket, and she feels lighter than she's felt for a long time. Hopes he feels the same. Licks her lips when he meets her eye. Bites her lip against a chuckle when he falls into a coughing fit mid-sentence.

He suggests the 2012 London Olympics and she's thrilled to the point of giddiness now, grabbing his suit lapels and planting a quick kiss on his lips as he's piloting them to their destination. When she pulls back, slightly surprised at her daylight impulsivity, he's starting at her with a dazed expression and a dopey smile. 

He bollocks up their landing, attempting to prance out the door and immediately darting back to the controls to re-adjust their positioning, and she leans back against a coral strut with a smirk.


	8. Chapter 8

Rose deducts and the Doctor leans in close and they’re entirely in sync in every way. At least until he glances down the corridor and his eyes narrow. 

“Stay here,” he growls with enough force that she actually does, watching him storm down the hall and around the corner with a thunderhead following his every step. 

He comes back a moment later, the storm cloud dissipated but replaced with an every worse coating of calm spread thinly across fear. “Never mind. Thought I saw…” Swallowing, he studies a coral strut, licking his thumb and rubbing away an imaginary spot. “Thought I saw myself actually.”

Rose raises an eyebrow. 

“Not quite as odd as it might seem, living on a time ship. Seen glimpses of myself before, as a matter of fact. I’ve gone back a few times to see certain things, certain people. It’s never a good…well.” He bites the inside of his cheek so hard that she winces. “Anyway. A suspicious little girl, eh? Let’s investigate, Lewis!”

She hates the façade but she paints one on of her own, taking his hand and swinging it as they stroll back down to Dame Kelly Holmes Close. She’ll draw it out of him later, once they’ve solved this mystery and night falls and the paint washes off them both. 

\--

He’s a dad and she’s chiding herself for being tactless and he’s being more open with her more than he’s ever been in the daylight hours but it’s a funny kind of openness; shy and awkward, like he wants to say so much more but he can only talk in snippets and metaphors. 

_Fear, loneliness. They’re the big ones, Rose. Some of the most terrible acts ever committed have been inspired by them._

He takes her hand when for once she hasn’t offered it (it’s always on offer) and the pleased smile that spreads across his face… She wants to kiss him, wants to expunge his uncertainties with her lips, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t and he’s gone, all at once and with the shattering of glass. 

When he finally has a hand to hold, hours and fears and tears later, he eats the cupcake with the edible ball bearings with a smile but he’s clutching her hand so tightly that her fingertips turn white. 

There’s a storm coming, apparently, but she suspects it’s more of an oncoming storm. 

Her hand remains firmly in his as they walk back to the TARDIS. He sends them into the vortex and pulls them both to sit in the jump seat, twisting his hip and pulling his leg up so that he’s facing her. She picks at a tear in the seam as she waits for him to speak. 

When he speaks, it’s through an expression of guilt. “Rose, I… I want to apologise. I’ve done some things lately that haven’t been…that weren’t entirely appropriate. That I shouldn’t do with my companions.” His free hand is in his hair, ruffling and tugging, and her eyes follow his fingers’ actions. “I’ve barely even been in my previous friends’ bedrooms, much less…” He trails off and pleads at her with his eyes not to make him continue. 

She stills and it’s a physical effort to keep her hand in his. It’s not wise for her to say anything right now, not with the anger and rejection welling up in her chest, so she stays silent and only nods her head forward infinitesimally. 

His mouth opens and closes a few times and when words finally squeeze their way out his mouth, they’re battered and bruised for their struggle. “You’re so important to me, Rose, so important, and…” He looks away for a moment before wrangling the nerve to meet her eyes again. “I’ve never felt this way. Like I won’t be able to go on if I lost you.” Their fingers are still entwined, frozen still and clammy, and he stares down at them. “And I will lose you. Tomorrow or in half a century, it’s all the same. And…I can’t…I shouldn’t…” Once again he pleads with her not to make him go on but this time she doesn’t let him off the hook. If he’s going to end what they have, he’s going to have to say the words. 

“You shouldn’t what?” She feels like she’s both in a fog and as if she’s hyper-aware, vigilant of every shoulder shrug, every tick of his eye. Time seems to have slowed and somewhere in the deepest recesses of her mind she wonders if it’s something his ship can do. 

And even deeper in her mind, she knows it can’t. If it could, there would be no problem in the eyes of her stuttering Time Lord.

“Shouldn’t get so attached,” he mumbles and she also knows that he’s shut down for the immediate future. The hunch of his back, the way he pries his fingers from hers and wipes his hand on his trousers. There’s nothing she can say to crack through his steel encasing and he’s certainly not joining her in bed tonight. 

Even as her blood is icy and her heart is clenched so tightly she’s amazed it’s pumping anything at all, she leans forward and strokes his cheek once. “I disagree. But we’ll talk in the morning, okay?”

He nods and with a final squeeze of her shoulder, she stands and stiffly walks out of the control room, allowing the tears to noiselessly flow once her face is out of his line of vision.

\--

She knows. She knows the instant she walks into her room with a cup of chamomile tea that she despises but knows it will help her sleep. She knows and she still calmly closes the door and sets the teacup on her dressing table. The saucer clinks against the hot cup and the steam dances and evaporates into the air and she knows.

The man in pinstripes is sitting on the very edge of her bed, head in hands and suit and tie fully starched and buttoned.

“Rose, I need to tell you something. I don’t know why or how I can tell you now, I don’t know why the timelines are allowing it, but there’s a point of ambiguity and as much as I want to ignore it, I can’t. I have to tell you. Even if you send me away, and I’ll go, I can’t…not. Tell you, that is, and—”

Her toes curl up into themselves but she’s otherwise a picture of calm. “You’re from my future.”

He’s taken aback but not surprised that she’s guessed. “Y-yes,” he splutters, his likely longwinded and self-deprecating speech thrown off course.

“Why?”

“You’re…gone. And I couldn’t… I needed to touch you, feel the beat of your heart one last time. And then I couldn’t stop.” He smiles weakly, his head still hung and the shadows under his eyes behemoth. “I’m addicted to you, Rose Tyler. But that’s no excuse. I… There’s no excuse.”

She sucks in air through her teeth and lets her chest rise and fall a few times before speaking again. “Every night? That’s been you?”

“Every night except after you lost your face.” He begins to raise his hand toward her but quickly clenches it closed and returns it to his side. 

“It was you I slept with? After the spaceship too?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, opening his mouth to say more but snapping it closed and looking down at his hands. 

“And _my_ Doctor…”

“Has no idea. I’m sorry, you can’t tell him, the timelines… I’m sorry, Rose, so sorry. That’s not enough, I—”

There’s a hundred questions racing through her head and no time to prioritise them but the most important one comes out anyway. “You’re hurting?”

“That doesn’t matter, Rose, I—”

“Did coming back help?”

He’s shaking his head vigorously even as he answers affirmatively with glistening eyes. “Rose, I—“

“Good. I never want you to be in pain.” She kneels in front of him and strokes his jawline. “My Doctor.”

He holds his breath as if he’s waiting for more and she says nothing more. Pressing her lips to him softly, he shakes his head miserably and turns away from her. 

“Don’t. I don’t deserve a modicum of sympathy from you and not even a speck of forgiveness. Rose… What I did, what I’m doing right now, even, is unconscionable. Reprehensible. I lied to you, I used my knowledge to manipulate you. I didn’t set out to fool you, but I still did and—”

“You tried to tell me.”

“I shouldn’t have been there at all.”

She sighs and inches closer to him so that she’s kneeling between his legs. “You couldn’t tell me, could you? Timelines?”

“There’s a _fixed point_ ,” he spits out the words like they’re a bitter poison, “that I can’t disrupt. For some reason, telling you now doesn’t disturb it, but earlier… Even within the TARDIS, who can sustain some pretty massive paradoxes, it would have ruptured time and space. Regardless, if I wasn’t so selfish I wouldn’t be here at all. I should be stronger than this.”

“Am I dead?”

He blinks and lifts his head to stare at her, a moment longer than she’s comfortable with and a violent shiver ripples through her spine. “I can’t tell you that.”

“How far in the future are you from?”

He looks down again. “Can’t tell you that either.”

“Why are you here now? I mean, in my personal history, why did you choose this time?”

“It was the only period with an opening in the timelines.” He fidgets and she notices.

He’s a future Doctor but he’s still her Doctor, no matter the number of rings under his eyes. And if he came back for her, it means something. She’s not sure what, won’t know until her final breath it seems, but it means something, she means something to him. And that’s all she needs to know for now. 

“Boy, I had no idea a relationship with a Time Lord would be this complicated. Are relationships always this…wibbley wobbley?”

His laugh is a half-sob. “No. You’re an exception.”

“Well.” She bites her lip and then lets it go. “I said you were stuck with me, didn’t I? Wasn’t aware of exactly how stuck we’d be, but there you are. It’s still true, Doctor.”

He rises to his feet abruptly enough that she doesn’t have time to react and she’s now face level with his crotch. When he looks down at her, he blanches, spluttering some incoherent noises and gently pulling her to stand before beginning to pace the room. 

“Why aren’t you furious with me?”

She pauses, thinking and analysing her own feelings. There’s embarrassment and a fair bit of confusion, a slight twinge of fear for their future, but it’s mostly sorrow for the broken man in front of her, watching her like she’s judge and executioner of the entire universe. He may not have made a good decision but she’s not sure there was a good decision to be had. 

Were the circumstances reversed, she’d tear through the walls of time and space to get back to him. Whatever it took. 

“I think…” He halts and holds his breath, bracing himself as if for a physical shock. “I think I need to drink my tea.”

The Doctor releases his breath with a whoosh and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Right, yes. I’ll leave and you can let it sink in. Um, if you want to talk about it, I—”

She laughs and shakes her head, grabbing her teacup and moving over to block the doorway. “I don’t want you to leave, you daft alien. Stay. Please.”

He nods and sits down gingerly on the edge of her bed again. 

“Do you want a cup too?”

A shake of his head. Still wordless. Just staring raptly.

“Want to share?” She doesn’t wait for his response and sits down next to him, the outside of their thighs touching through layers of clothing. The tea has cooled considerably but it’s still warm enough to be palatable and she takes a sip before passing it over to him. His hands are shaking enough that the cup clatters precariously against the saucer. 

“How many more times can you see me?”

The saucer crashes to the floor and breaks in half; she rescues the cup before it suffers the same fate and kicks the broken china under the bed with her foot. 

“Rose, you can’t possibly want—”

“What did I say the other night? I assume that was you, anyway. I said that we should seize every moment we possibly can. We’re certainly making good use of time, huh? Cramming in every moment?”

“Rose…”

“I also said that I’m yours unconditionally. This is weird. Really weird.” She breaks into a smile and squeezes his knee. “But so’s the universe, yeah? Everything’s different and unusual and…well, alien. But once you see its scope, its beginnings and ends and all the stuff in between… It’s breathtaking. And that we get this extra gift of time… That’s pretty awe-inspiring too.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink for a long moment. And then he wilts and she knows she’s won. That they’ve both won. “There is nothing in this universe more awe-inspiring than you, Rose Tyler. Nothing,” he rasps out and she can’t hold back from kissing him any longer. 

He’s smiling against her lips when she breaks for air and she matches it, two grinning fools smiling into each others’ mouths. 

“When’s my current Doctor going to kiss me like that?” she murmurs aloud, not really expecting a response, but he smiles sadly anyway.

“Can’t tell you.”

“Okay.” She bites her lip but she can’t hold back what may be permanently upturned. “I’m going to need to kiss you, aren’t I?”

His eyes twinkle for a moment and then he hides them in the shelter of her shoulder, his lips sucking and laving their way back up to her face. 

“He does…you did want me to, right? You feel that way about me, even now? Then? Whatever the right word is?”

He laughs into her jawline and detaches himself. “I haven’t lied to you. Not once. And especially not about my feelings; all those fantasies and desires for you, even in my previous body… Trust me, I wanted you to kiss me. I’m currently under the console table cursing myself for my cowardice.”

“He saw you today.”

“I remember. It scared me. I only tend to revisit my past in extreme circumstances.”

“And I’m an extreme circumstance?” she teases, cocking her head to the side and barely caring anymore about the words they’re saying.

“To say the least.” He tucks her hair behind an ear and leans into brush his lips against its shell. “Although perhaps extreme is the wrong word. Clever. Generous. Biggest heart I’ve ever come across. Brave. Beautiful beyond measure. Forgiving to a fault, even when it’s not deserved.”

“Always,” she whispers back and he hums deep in his throat. His words from the first time he’d kissed her float across her mindscape and with a Cheshire grin she stands up and puts the teacup back on the side table. 

His eyes follow her as she steps over to the wardrobe and rummages through the pile of crumpled clothes on the top shelf. Finding what she’s looking for, she whips it out and holds it behind her back as she saunters back over to him. His eyes widen at the expression on her face, doubtlessly dark eyed and flushed, but it’s nothing compared to his reaction when she drapes the object around her neck with a sultry smile.

“Recognise this?”

He swallows as he watches the multi-coloured scarf flow along her chest and down her hips as she tugs it along her body. “Yes,” he squeaks.

“Want me to prove I’m yours? My bedframe has _great_ slats.” 

He looks over where she’s directing his attention with her eyes and then back at her. 

She’s in his arms and the scarf is flung to a far corner of the room, instantly forgotten.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive apologies for the delay! There’s a Dark Doctor warning on this fic because future-Doctor’s actions are morally-grey at best. If you would like a heads-up about any other topics or themes that are not commonly warned for on Ao3/Tsp, please send me an [ask](http://allegoricalrose.tumblr.com/askfaq) or an [email](mailto:%22allegoricalrose@gmail.com%22) and I’ll respond privately. There’s only one more chapter after this one and I’ve written it (if you don’t trust me again after a nine month interlude!): I’ll post it next weekend

He stays all night and he wakes her early with reverent kisses like he’s paying offering to a deity, like his lips are his supplication and his tongue praying hands. He’s genuflecting when he brings her to a sleepy high with his mouth and she sees a flickering fire instead of cold stars.

“You never answered my question,” she murmurs to her future-Doctor when he returns to her side and she turns and burrows into his naked chest. Their legs tangle like the sinews of her heart with his.

He doesn’t respond right away, kissing her hair and then her temple. “What question?” He knows what question.

“How many more times can you come back?”

Languid muscles tense and his hearts accelerate under her cheek. “This is the last time.”

“Should be or has to be?”

He’s silent again; long enough that she’d wonder if he’s succumbed to sleep again except that she’s absolutely certain he’s wide awake.

She knows, too. “There’s only one more time, huh?”

There’s no response and his response is crystal clear.

So is her reply.

“You’ll come. You’ll seize any opportunity to come. Please.” She pauses, thinking logistics in a way she never thought she’d have to think. “Wear a different suit so I know it’s you.”

He nods. She plants open-mouthed kisses along his clavicle. “Thank you.”

“I don’t do goodbyes. Not for anyone else but you.”

“I know.” And she does know and she pours the unspoken understanding out through her lips and when she tries to tell him through her tongue he stops her again, multiplying her aborted three words with thousands of his own.

Gently rolling her to her other side, he clamps his lips down on her neck as he fumbles between them, nudging a leg in between hers and angling her hips just right, enters her from behind. He plays her clitoris like a delicate alien musical instrument as he rocks back and forth, in and out, nerves sliding along nerves. She arches with a cry but he’s playing a long game and she’s half-dreaming when he finally pulses inside her. They sleep without disentangling and she wakes to a dozy litany of foreign words.

“ _Allyia; amorla. Allyia; amorha!_ ”

\--

Rose is sparking clean and her hair still slight damp, certain parts more meticulously scrubbed than others by her conscientious future-Time Lord, when she strides into the galley for breakfast.

Installs herself in her current-Time Lord’s lap before he’s had a chance to say a single word.

Grabs his lapels.

Crashes their lips together.

He’s startled enough that his mouth opens in an involuntary gasp and she takes the opportunity, will never squander another one, and she’s stroking the surprise and insecurities away until she’s kissing a man who has thrown whatever was left of his restraint into a black hole, morsel by morsel.

There’s a fair amount of breathlessness when she eventually breaks away and watches him, panting until his eyes open. They’re glazed over but they’re fixed on hers, silent and waiting. She shrugs. “I was tired of dancing around this.”

A funny noise escapes his throat, half agreement and half incredulity, and the grin that dawns across his entire face is so unreservedly pleased that she has to taste it again. It’s sweet and it’s salty and it’s utter decadence until a bitter flavor emerges and she pulls back.

“You’re thinking, aren’t you?”

He clears his throat and shifts his legs but his grip on her hips remains firm. “This… There’s a storm coming, Rose, and—”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t know what it is but it’s not good. It’s never good. And I can’t lose—”

“There’s always something coming, always possibilities and danger. Life is dangerous. So why not squeeze every second from every minute? Live time fully?”

He inhales and holds it. He exhales and his breath is cool on her hairline. “Fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run.”

“Now you’ve got it,” she agrees and draws a stripe with her finger from the centre of his hearts to his cheek. There’s not even a hint of stubble there and she wonders briefly if it’s a Time Lord thing or if he shaves every morning and she imagines sitting on his bathroom counter with him between her legs, spreading shaving cream on his face and slowly dragging the razor along his skin. She wonders if he’d like that, if he’d let her do that. She wonders why she’s gotten stuck on this fantasy when she's straddling real thing between her legs.

“There’s no time in the vortex, Rose. No time to conquer.” His words are brave but his voice is hoarse.

“I guess we’ve already won then. We’re the victors.”

“And we’ll go down fighting!”

They laugh at their proud words, their taunts to Death in the darkness, but there’s a small part of her that wants to turn her head and cry. Instead she drops her hands down to his shoulders, runs light fingertips down his arms until they’re palm to palm.

There’s a beat as she threads her fingers through his. “Right,” he breathes. He’s nervous and pleased and hesitant and eager and a hundred other emotions and she loves him for them all but even more for their sum.

“Right,” she echoes with a smile that he mirrors reflexively and one that she devours in place of breakfast. His lips are swollen and glistening when she releases him and she’s seen him more composed under torture. “Come to bed with me.”

A squeaky noise escapes his mouth. “Bed? Now? It’s morning and you just woke up and—”

She quirks an eyebrow.

“No—yes, you’re right, no time in the vortex, we just said that, you’re entirely right, and what I meant to say was that there’s a whole world outside. I landed us on a planet entirely covered in water. We’re underwater as we speak, Rose! A time and space submarine!”

His babbling is even more forceful than usual and she pauses to consider him, tilting her head and leaning her elbows behind her on the table edge. “This is too fast for you isn’t it?” she asks softly. “We can take it slower.”

The Doctor closes his eyes and nods gratefully and her heart simultaneously collapses and expands for the vulnerable man beneath her. She moves forward and touches her lips to his, gently this time.

“Okay.” The soreness between her legs thanks her, anyway. She inhales deep breaths straight from his lungs and after a few minutes her heart stops pounding so loudly. “Do we need scuba suits or something?”

He’s utterly discombobulated and she’s utterly besotted. His eyes don’t leave her lips and she can see that he’s fighting a homeostatic battle of his own, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than she’s ever seen. “What?”

Rose smirks and lets her tongue peek out from her lips for a moment. He swallows and she’s momentarily distracted by his Adam’s apply bobbing up and down. “The underwater planet,” she prompts.

“The underwater planet…” he echoes. There’s a shift in the power balance, then: she can almost feel him clutching at control like slippery straws. She metaphorically pushes a few his way and smiles as his hands slide up her waist, along her arms and finally landing on her bare shoulders, etching circles with his thumbs. The clouds in his eyes begin to burn off. “Right. Vodalann. Nope, no scuba suits necessary, there’s an entire network of underwater tunnels and resort spheres. But…”

His fragile acuity slips, just for a second, and she sucks her lip into her mouth and waits patiently. She’s not sure why, but her gesture seems to ground him and he leans back in his seat and ghosts his hands down her arms and clasps her fingers again. “But I’m reconsidering now,” he continues. “What would you say to a day in, instead? Rose Tyler, I don’t believe I’ve ever shown you the media room. Shame on me. Full-wall cinema screen, popcorn maker, Mr. Whippy ice cream machine… Am I tempting you?”

She pretends to contemplate. “Cozy couches?”

He begins to look uncomfortable again—no, not uncomfortable. Abashed, maybe. It’s a look she rarely sees on him without an accompanying tug of his ears or scratch of his neck but he doesn’t relinquish his grip on her hands this time. His fingers do flex and it’s almost like he’s kneading her palm. “Cinema-style seating, I’m afraid.”

“Of course.” She grins and he returns it in slow motion, its end brighter than any Hollywood spotlight. “I guess you’ll have to awkwardly drape your arm around the back of my seat then. And maybe our hands will brush together in the popcorn tub.”

He blushes but it’s a pleased blush. “It’s a date.” Her ancient Time Lord is no more than a bumbling teenage boy, sometimes.

When they eventually make it to the media room after tea and toast and tea-and-toast-tinged kisses, there’s only a tiny overstuffed loveseat in the room.

\---

He plans other dates in the following days and most of his plans come to fruition. There’s the small matter of imprisonment on a backwater planet in the Andromeda galaxy but otherwise their adventures are calm and understated.

And because they’re calm, he talks.

He tells her about Gallifrey, about the incandescent tree leaves and poetic landmarks but also about the megalomania and the hubris.

The fall.

His granddaughter is mentioned and although he’s not yet to a place where he can discuss the rest of his family, he says it’s a story for another day and she takes him at his promise. He references old companions, mostly in a lighthearted nostalgic way, but she squeezes his hand when he tells her of Adric’s beginning and end, why those metal monstrosities in the other universe filled him with such horror, why all her dinosaurs are now extinct.

She kisses him under triple moons and purple sunsets and as time passes, he begins to kiss her too. She learns the sensation of trembling lips between her teeth, of his cat-like arching into her whenever she strokes the back of his neck, that he’s ticklish along the balls of his feet and at the top of his knees. She counts his ribs (t _wenty-four; the same number he counts on her_ ), his teeth ( _thirty: two less than those he enumerates with taps of his tongue in her own mouth_ ), the freckles in his nose ( _fourteen; her lips Christian each under a nebula-filled sky_ ).

He asks her to be his wife before he’s even seen her naked and she says yes before he even finishes the question.

\---

On an uninhabited world, star-bathing on his jacket and folded into each other’s sides, he wets his lips and rolls his neck to face her.

“How would you feel about now?”

His words are so soft and vague that only someone in complete synchrony with him would understand them. His hearts have sped up and hers leap to follow them. There’s a slight breeze but it’s not responsible for the prickling of her skin.

“Yes,” she whispers back without hesitation. The foliage under her back is damp but it’s not responsible for the sheen of sweat across her back. “Here?”

He’s quiet in the way he is when his mind is cacophonous.

“Marry me first. Bond with me first.”

Her heart sinks and she bites her lip. “I’ll die and you’ll be left with all that pain. You said that if we bond and can’t touch, even for a few days, it’ll break you. How can you want that? How can I do that to you?”

 _"Even separation will hurt. Without your touch, without the commune of my tactile receptors to yours… It’s the worst kind of pain, entirely mental and entirely consuming.”_ She knows. She’s seen it. And she knows that, in a way, she’s already done this to him. What else could she have seen in her future-Doctor than the agony of a broken bond?

He rolls back onto his back, his eyes back on the stars. “I can handle it. And you…” He swallows and slowly turns to meet her eye again. “You’re worth it. The feeling of you in my head, in my mind, even for a millisecond. I’d die a thousand deaths. Please, Rose. Please.”

It’s aeons ago that she would have disagreed, would have protested her worth with malapropisms like school examinations and former occupations. And it’s all because of the man asking to connect with her, mind and body. The man who’s giving her a lifetime of happiness by sentencing himself to multiple lifetimes of pain.

Before he’d disappeared the last time, she’d asked the future-Doctor whether all her choices were predetermined, if this paradox he’d created by coming back for her was hurdling on through space and time too fast for anything to divert its trajectory. The deep circles under his eyes had sunken even further but he’d plastered a smile on his lips and told her that only that single fixed point, that he’d lose her at a certain day and time, was unchangeable. That she could still march up her current Doctor and demand that he never come back for her after she’s gone; the time lines would work themselves out even without him coming back to tell her this, now.

“ _You always have a choice, Rose. One word and I’ll never have come back, we’ll never have had this conversation. The fixed point creates congruent timelines, all leading to the same place but via different paths. Your evolutionary biologists talk about degeneracy, your neuroscientists call it equifinality, your philosophers name it supervenience. An infinite number of roads leading to the same place and you’re at the wheel._ ”

She’d asked him back then if they’re together in all those timelines. He’d shaken his head. 

“ _Only in the good ones._ ”

She chooses love as their timeline now, nodding slowly while rising to hover above him on the grass; his lips are salty and stretched so taut it’s hard to get a good grip.

There are decades and decades before she’ll leave him for a cold grave. Plenty of time left to make every second count.

\---

They marry alone, witnessed only by ancient stone pillars and flying creatures. She wonders about Time Lord ceremonies, if they’re celebrations with friends and family, and it hurts. And then it doesn’t because he’s in her head and his rapture eclipses all other sensations; that she can be the reason for his elation breaks her down and builds her up and she’s never been as whole as she is now with him pulsing through every thought. He’s in her blood, in every inhalation and exultation, in the curl of her toes and the shiver down her spine. He fills the spaces in-between, spaces she didn’t know existed until they runneth over.

His vows are Gallifreyan and she understands every rhyming couplet.

“ _Allyia; amorla. Allyia; amorha!_ ”

“ _My beloved; my life. My beloved; my wife!_ ”

When she says forever, what she really means is infinity compressed so densely, time wrapped around time wrapped around him, that it fits into her remaining six decades. He understands but he doesn’t understand; she deadlocks only one mental door to him and he passes it by with only a single backward glance.

\---

Her heart is in his chest and his mind in her head. It’s overwhelming and also not enough. She drags him toward a plush bed on the TARDIS; he shakes his head and pilots them instead to a planet with plush grass under a starlit sky. Glowing creatures dance above the surface of a lake and phosphorescent creatures weave lazy trails below. It’s a heady feeling, like they’re falling through space while standing still. She doesn’t need their bond to understand why he’s chosen here rather than a beautiful blue box he’s used to escape for so many centuries.

“It’s not falling, what we’re doing,” he clarifies while she stands agape in the twilight. “It’s flying.”

He takes her hand and they run but they’re still in sight of the TARDIS when he can run no more, pulling her down to the ground. His short breaths tickle the side of her neck and then it’s his tongue. And then it’s everything, absolutely _everything_ when his skin is on her skin and her hand is in his and his body becomes an extension of her own.

They move with the creatures and the stars and she manages not to dwell on the fact that she and her other-half _are_ creatures and stars.

Respectively.

\---

Very little changes after that. Their adventures continue and they hold hands and find excuses for victory hugs. They don’t talk much about how things have changed and they don’t introduce themselves as husband and wife. She doesn’t even have a ring.

These words and symbols: she finds they don’t matter.

They don’t matter because at the end of their adventures there’s an even bigger one, one where everyone lives every single time and love begets love in an infinite loop until the coral struts of their bedroom creak under the pressure.

She doesn’t need a ring because his presence in her head is constant and more endless than a tarnished circle. The rest of the universe probably knows anyway: some days it feels like they’re made of living sunlight.

There are words he doesn’t say but they don’t matter either. Because he shows them and that’s more than any vocal cord vibrations and lip configurations could ever tell. Besides, she’d rather those lips stay right on hers where they belong. The Future Doctor never let her say them and so they remain sacred, unspeakable. Still, she whispers them into his mouth like telling secrets underwater.

What she says aloud is her express permission and demand that he come back for her if he needs her.

Later.

After.

He scrambles for other subjects, distractions and pretty things in distant solar systems; he argues that he would never; he turns away and shakes his head; he begins lectures on paradoxes and personal timelines and the nature of time itself before trailing off, distraught. She kisses him and repeats herself the next day _ad infinitum_.

\--

It’s three weeks before she decides they need to tell at least one person. Rose wears a fuzzy blue jumper and the Doctor parks in a nearby playground and they’re hopelessly, hopelessly in love.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [See here](http://allegoricalrose.tumblr.com/post/130591486534/fic-content-warning-spoilers) for content and trigger warnings.

He changes into a blue suit.

It’s bright and snappy and everything he isn’t. Everything he’ll never be again. This will be his death suit. A funeral suit. A mourning suit. A widower’s suit. 

The suit in which he touches his wife, his bondmate, his all for the very last time. 

_(Allyia; amorla. Allyia; amorha!)_

The mirror is unkind and he deserves it. His skin is sallow, the circles under his eyes more like black holes. He’s an addict at the very peak of withdrawal symptoms except that they’ll keep getting worse and he’ll be riding the crest until his last body’s breath. It’s been three weeks since he saw her last, three weeks since he told her the truth, three weeks since the silly creature forgave him his trespasses, since she _comforted_  him for his immorality, and no length of self-induced coma or zero-room asylum has manage to conquer the deprivation. 

A single peal of the cloister bell and a loud click indicates the TARDIS has finally unlocked her doors for him but he’s known for days. Weeks. Months. The timelines are converging and their mathematical equations are damningly invariable. 

He has only sixteen minutes this time, this last time, and still he squanders three of them paralysed at the door.  


When he finally moves, finally forces one foot in front of the next, it’s an out of body experience, watching his arms and legs move as if someone else is at the helm. The wooden door gets closed and locked, the closet door is similarly safeguarded, and it’s all performed as he observes himself as from above. 

His hermitage, his TARDIS within a TARDIS, is usually sequestered miles away from where anyone in Rose’s ship would ever venture but this time it seems his timeship has taken pity and he’s only feet away from the console room. There are muffled noises and he crouches behind a pillar until the outside door opens and they fade away. 

She’s wearing the fuzzy blue jumper that haunts his dreams, pressing her ear to the inside of the door before running over to the monitor on the console and, ah, yes, there’s that gleam in her eyes, the tongue at the corner of her lips. It’s possibly the first time he’s ever despaired to see them. 

“Rose,” he croaks out. 

She jumps and then bursts into a grin when she locates him. “Blue? Why blue?” she laughs, running over to hug him.  She smells of adrenaline and ghosts. 

“What’s wrong with blue?” he protests weakly, funneling all his self-control into not squeezing her to death. 

She hums appreciatively, running her hands across the suit but all too soon her smile falls and he grimaces at her worried prodding of his jutting ribs, the moment she fully takes in his appearance. It’s been a rough three weeks ( _Twenty-one_   _days, sixteen hours, twelve minutes: Allyia; amorla. Allyia; amorha!_ ) and he can’t honestly say he’s been taking care of himself like she’d made him promise the last time he’d seen her. 

“Doctor.”

He can only shake his head and inhale her scent, willing his olfactory receptors to burn that sensory trace into his memory permanently. They won’t: all fades that isn’t reinforced. “We don’t have long,” he murmurs, his cheek pressed to her scalp.

Time. A Time Lord’s greatest power and his most formidable foe. Oh he likes to loftily remind others that time isn’t a straight line but the truth is that he’s the exception to that rule. His time is achingly linear and there’s no escaping it. He can go forward and backward, begin and end, change and divert the timelines of every single entity in the universe except for his own. And his own timeline keeps sprinting forward, relentless. 

Every nerve ending in his body is screaming for her, every visceromotor neuron furiously firing signals to snatch her up and hide them both away in his TARDIS until the universe bleeds around them, every synapse of his time sense saturated with neurotransmitters urging a coup d’etat against the fixed point, against the very fabric of time itself. The laws of time can be _his_ they chant; he can force them to obey, to bend to his whim. 

But so much more than his tissue-paper hearts would crumble if he doesn’t let her skip to her fate and so he takes a deep breath and he tightens his arms around her. 

“Besides, I believe you have a rescue to make.” He’s proud that his voice doesn’t crack but he’s not proud of anything else. 

She lights up. “How do I do? Obviously I’m successful.” He remembers that hubris; he remembers its downfall. When he hesitates Rose pulls away from his embrace and searches his face.

“You no less than save the universe today, my dear,” he finally quips glibly and her prideful hum just about covers up the strangulation in his term of endearment. 

“Just another day then. Pity, thought it might be a challenge for once.” He can’t match her blithe smile; she notices and sobers. “This is the last time, huh? For you?”

He lowers his chin to his chest and looks away. 

“How long have we got?”

“Only a few minutes.”

Her face falls and the corners of her lips turn down. He scrambles to find some useless platitudes to cheer her up, to distract her from his bitter end, but she surprises him when she suddenly erupts into another beaming grin. This one’s even brighter than her first and there’s something else in it, something shy or maybe even nervous.

“Maybe it’s fitting then. You can be the first to know, or rather, I guess you can be the first person I tell. I mean, you obviously already know, you know, in your timeline. But still. It feels right to tell you now.” She looks down at her hands, twisting her fingers together and shifting her weight between her feet. 

A pit develops in his stomach, a portent of something his body knows but his brain isn’t even close to being in the loop.

“What do you want to tell me?” he asks softly, cupping her jaw with the palm of his hand. She leans into it for a moment.

“Okay, well, it’s weird to say it this way but…today’s the day I discovered. About…that I was, am… you know…” 

She’s looking at him like he _should_ know but all he can do is stare at her blankly. “The day you discovered what?”

Timelines stir. 

She gestures something vague and completely incomprehensible and she’s veritably buzzing. “I mean, you’re happy about it, right? I know you are, will be, were...whatever!”

Time begins to feel sluggish even as it races on. He’s missed something, something’s about to change. “Rose, I don’t quite follow.” There’s a metallic taste in his mouth as he waits for her to elaborate. 

“I swear, for all this genius you constantly boast about, you can be so clueless sometimes, Doctor.”

“Rose,” he warns, his voice low and urgent. He’s choking on timelines now, they’re wrapped around his throat like a viper, ready to strike down at his hearts. “What? What did you discover today?”

She gives him a strange look but gives in. “That I’m…about the baby. I realised this morning, right before we went to Mum’s. I’m not wrong, am I? I’m pretty sure…”  

He’s wrong. Time can stop. 

And then it’s back, heedless as ever, and he’s only got precious milliseconds to pull himself back together before she notices that anything is amiss. 

“Ohhh,” he forces out and his motor pathways finally cobble together the required muscle sequence for a smile. “Oh! That’s today, is it?” 

Every word is a thousand knives stabbing into his hearts, every breath, every blink twisting them further until they’re permanently lodged there. He bites the inside of his cheeks but can’t feel the sensation above the screeching of pain.

“That’s why I wanted to visit Mum today. I wanted to pick up a pregnancy test from town, just to make sure before I told you. But then the ghosts and—”

“Yeah. The ghosts.” He swallows and all at once he’s a ghost on a beach, a million universes away.

_“There's five of us now. Mum, Dad, Mickey. And the baby.”_

“But I’m right, yeah? I know it’s really early, not even sure if a test can read it this early, but I just _know_.  I don’t know.”

He doesn’t think he can survive the knowledge but still he reaches shaking hands down to her flat stomach. She’s bonded with her current version of himself since he last saw her and it’s gaspingly easy to connect with her nervous system. 

“It’s not early.” He takes a few breaths through his nose before he can continue; his hands don’t leave her abdomen. “Rose, you’re… you’re almost three months gone.”

She scrunches up her forehead, working backward. “Oh. _Oh..._ It’s yours? I mean, of course it’s yours, but I mean…” And then she smiles, a real, joyful smile, and his pulverised hearts solidify with the sole purpose of breaking again. “That’s quite nice. I like that.”

He can’t speak.

The timelines thicken around him, smaller ones converging onto larger ones, all barreling through time and space to one destination, a destination only a few floors away from where they stand now. The fixed point looms and he’s going to lose her all over again. And worse, _worse,_ he’s losing even more than he ever imagined possible this time. 

He’d thought he was cheating time, that he was flitting in and out and around this point. But he was always heading here. 

Losing Rose that first time was never the fixed point.

Losing Rose and the baby, now, again, in his current timeline. _This_ is, was, and will ever be the fixed point. 

“That means that I finally get to tell you about…you, huh?  Otherwise I don’t know how I’m going to explain this one!” 

He nods, unable to do anything else. It’s not like she’ll get the chance: she won’t have a spare second alone with him ever again. Because he’s losing her in a couple of minutes but she’s losing him in less than an hour and he can’t even warn her. 

The cloister bell rings, low and resounding, and he’s the only one who can hear it.

“Rose,” he finally manages, crushing her into a tight hug to hide his face. She’s crying when he finally manages to wrench himself out of the haven of her neck but he’s too numb to know whether his own face is wet. 

The final three minutes pass too quickly and it’s not enough time to cherish every touch, every movement of her eyelashes, to count the tiny freckles on her noise. He’s not sure whether or not he kisses lips he’ll never kiss again, caresses hair he’ll never again nuzzle on cold mornings, entwines himself into a body he’ll never slip into bed with again. 

He knows he falls to his knees and kisses a patch of skin above his son or daughter’s first home, knows he whispers canticles of love in his native tongue to the child he’ll never touch ( _that he’ll never see open her eyes, never smell the sweet dew behind his neck after a nap, never nibble at her toes, never hear the psalmody of his first cooing_ ).

He knows he tells the mother of his new life that she’ll be fine, that he’s delighted beyond measure. He promises that the day she tells him will be the happiest of his entire life. 

He doesn’t tell her that it will also be the worst day of his life. 

He reminds her to take the psychic paper, reminds her that he loves her. Doesn’t tell her any more than that. _Can’t_ tell her any more than that. If she wasn’t distracted by soldiers with guns and incognito mothers he knows she’d see him cracking and crumbling around her and it’s the first and only time he’s appreciated their existence. 

Still, she won’t leave him and he knows. He knows. But time is up and somehow he manages to gently disentangle her arms from around his neck, nudging her toward the video monitor screen again and fleeing while his legs still respond to his feeble commands. 

She calls out to him just before he turns the corner. He stops but can can’t turn back toward her, knows if he does he’ll never be able to turn away again. 

“Stay safe, Doctor. I want you safe, yeah?”  


“I will.”  


“And you won’t give up? On anything? You’ll keep going?”

“Yep.” His voice is almost inaudible, his throat tight.

She inhales a ragged breath. “And if there’s ever another way, no matter what or how or when… You’ll take it, yeah? If time changes, if a new loophole appears or, I don’t know, a hole is ripped in the time/space continuum… You’ll come back again, right? You’ll come back for me?” Her plea is shaky. 

His shoulders slump even as he nods without turning and resumes his trudge back to the TARDIS. There isn’t any more time. In an hour she’ll be gone. There can’t any more loopholes, no holes at all. He should know: he’d searched every corner of the universe after she’d fallen through. All the holes were sealed up 0.76 seconds after her hands slipped from the lever.  


The cloister bell continues to ring. T minus forty-three minutes until the fixed point.

He continues his death march, two hearts his dirge. 

He freezes. 

After her hands _slip_ from the lever.

His breath catches.

All the holes _will be_  sealed up. 

He breaks into a run.

\--

If the fixed point wasn’t losing her the first time but rather losing her this second time, losing her and the baby they’d created in this latter time line, it means something else entirely. It means he was always meant to be a part of events. Stowing away on the TARDIS for months wasn’t cheating his timeline: it was living it. It’s why he’d been able to do it in the first place, why he’d been able to change things that had already been changed. He’d _always_ been in his own timeline; what he’d failed to see ( _oh, what he’d failed to see!_ ) was his linear timeline in the context of a non-linear universe. 

If he’s in his own timeline, right here, right now, he’s not crossing it. 

And if he’s not crossing it, he’s free. As long as he doesn’t interfere with any of the events of Canary Wharf and losing his wife to an alternative universe, his future timelines are unfurling with limitless potential. 

And for 42 more minutes, forty two more glorious minutes, there’s a breach in the walls between two universes.

_“Will I ever see you again?”_  


_“You can’t.”_

She couldn't back then; he couldn’t back then. But now. Now he can and now he does. 

Time Lord, victorious.

\---

There’s no choir, no rising chords or crescendos when he navigates his timeship through one of the many gashes in the universe. Trumpets don’t herald his entry to the parallel universe and his landing is quietly prosaic. 

But it’s not silent. The TARDIS continues her humming, trans-universal and unwavering, and it’s more of a musical climax than the Doctor will ever ask for. The doors fling open and he stumbles outside.

Bad Wolf Bay. 

He’d thought it was a warning, the last time he saw this beach and she’d spoken its name. But maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it’s a message; the same words, here and in the other universe. A link between himself and Rose. 

Bad Wolf here. Bad Wolf there. 

_“I am the Bad Wolf. I create myself. I take the words, I scatter them in time and space. A message to lead myself here.”_

Bad Wolf here. Bad Wolf there. 

_“I can see the whole of time and space…I can see everything. All that is, all that was, all that ever could be.”_

Congruent timelines finally coming together across time and space down a winding path his goddess had mapped long before this day.  

_(Allyia; amorla. Allyia; amorha!)_

His knees give out.

\---

He has to watch it all again. The hope in her eyes when he appears; its dousing when he explains he’s only an image. _No touch._ He watches her desperate hint about the baby, watches her face fall when she realises that he still doesn’t know, that he’s yet to come back for her, that this truly _is_  the end. The final battle; her foretold death and the separation of which she’d defied the stars.

Like a newly sighted blind man, he sees now how his precious girl barely falters, soldiering on and launching straight into cheerful deflections about her mum and three months that really describe the growing life in her own womb. How she fights to maintain the tenuous timelines and convince him that she’ll be all right. That he shouldn’t worry about her. How she understands that here on thisicy beach is when she finally gets to verbalise her love and that it can only be proclaimed to a ghost.  

And then his projection flickers and fades and he has to watch her face crumple, watch her clutch her stomach the second he’s gone and fold into herself. She runs to her mum and he almost hesitates at the sight of how much pain he’s suffered because of him.  


Almost.

(Not even close.)

He steps out from behind a stone and she locks eyes with him over Jackie’s shoulder. The blood drains from her face.

And then Rose is over there and she’s all he wants in the universe, in any universe, and he needs to get to her, needs to touch her, needs to feel their new life in his palm, needs her back in his head.

He runs flat out. 

She meets him exactly halfway.

They slam into one another as if their bodies need to merge alongside their minds, the Doctor barely managing to grip her hips to protect the life they cradle. His hands are everywhere, her hands are everywhere, his hair is a mess and hers fares little better. 

“I love you, I love you,” he repeats over and over with urgency, “ _Allyia; amorla. Allyia; amorha_!”

The wind picks up and the waves roar.  


“I love you,” is her coupled invocation, the words broken up between kisses along her eyelids, across the freckles of his nose, down sweet spots behind ears and necklines. And then her smile is a grin and then it’s laughter and she’s holding his face still between cold fingers. “I love you, too” 

It’s all together this time. 

One timeline, infinite divergent possibilities. 

_Allyia; amorla. Allyia; amorha!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote. Thanks for sticking with this across the long delay and to @ariadnamsaenz at tumblr who asked, for her 2014 Secret Santa (!) fic, if I could " _maybe work the word congruence into it._ " Hope this fit the bill!


End file.
